The Winning Hand
by Poppy471
Summary: What happens when Bender loses it all? Beware, this one is pretty soppy. (Drugs, adult situations, strong language, a small amount of violence. Also, some cliches.)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"John Bender report to the principal's office," blares the school announcement system. Bender sighs. It figures, just when he is occupied. Behind the gym, he finishes a long, delicious kiss with Claire. He hates to leave a task undone. The office can wait. She's looking beautiful in a suede skirt and incredibly soft sweater. He knows exactly how soft from personal investigation. Leave no stone unturned is his motto. There, no one can say he has no principles or work ethic.

Claire is giggling now, pulling him towards the school entrance.

"What are they going to do, give me a detention?"

"C'mon, John, it's almost home room anyway," she says, giving him a yank.

This will actually be it- the whole school will turn their heads in amazement when John Bender and Claire Standish enter the halls holding hands. He knows his friends will take it in stride. He's been with every kind of woman you could think of, what would be the difference with his latest conquest? He knows what their reaction will be and wishes, for once, he didn't have that reputation. They won't believe him when he says she is different. Or, if they do believe him, they'll be none too happy. Outsiders are not welcome in his group. Amongst other things, they can narc on you.

And Queenie... He assumes the asshole activities people will be just that, assholes. How much will that hurt her? Only she knows the penalty she will suffer.

Now he pretends they are on stage and gives the audience something to excite them... kissing Claire just inside the front doors. A chaste kiss. He doesn't want to tarnish her pristine reputation any more than it will be tarnished simply by being seen with him. She's a good girl and he plans on treating her like one. In public, at least. Who knows what they might get up to in private... He relishes the idea of longer, more intimate kisses, off stage.

"See you in biology," he says. She squeezes his hand.

He takes the stairs two at a time, basking in the wave of whispers and stares. He loves being the center of attention.

* * *

He doesn't get to say goodbye to Claire. She'll be in biology, wondering what happened to him.

Principle Gossman expels him in person. Vice Principle Vernon is standing one step behind the principle, giving him that stupid hand signal... don't mess with the bull, you'll get the horns. Well shit. Vernon finally achieved his goal. It was the fallen ceiling that put the last nail in his coffin. It fills him with impotent rage to give Vernon satisfaction. In fact, his hatred is all-engrossing while signing the papers and being told he is forbidden the school grounds. A security guard walks him to his locker. He grabs his carton of cigarettes. He leaves everything else. Damn thing doesn't have a lock on it anyway.

As he is escorted off the school grounds, the real situation starts to come down on him. He had 3 months til graduation. Damn. Not that he will miss the whole cap and gown thing, but fuck, he wanted a diploma. A diploma is prerequisite to anything at all even remotely good in the job market. He actually does care about that.

He'll show Vernon. He grits his teeth and swears he will.


	2. Trophies

_***Author's note: I am experiencing technical difficulties and will come back next week. I promise I won't abandon you!***_

Six months later John Bender is propping up a bus stop sign. He has a fresh black eye and a splint on his finger. People tend to not ask... they assume they know and leave it alone out of fear. Or maybe pity. Depending on what they assume. Fist fight, beating from his father, whatever. Anyway, he sure as hell isn't telling anyone what really happened.

He looks up the street at the brick building he's just come from. That's another thing no one will know about if he has any say. But then he sees Allison Reynolds emerge from that very building. She's heading towards the bus stop. Just what he needs, Psycho showing up. She's got her head down, face covered by her bangs as usual. She walks past a City of Shermer sign which designates the building as Department of Social Services. Inscribed at the bottom is Dr. F. Panz, PhD. He watches as she rambles towards the bus stop.

"Hey Psycho," Bender says, as she arrives. He looks her up and down. Same old Allison.

Allison turns her head a bit and one eye shows through her bangs.

"You never came back." Well that certainly dispenses with the formalities.

"Hey, what can I say? Vernon finally got me chucked from school. It was my nontraditional entrance to the library that did it."

"Claire and Andy weren't expelled. They just don't want to be around me." She would be pathetic if she weren't so damn honest. She's the most honest compulsive liar he's met.

"What happened with them?" Being kicked out means he hasn't seen Sporto and the dweeb at all, and this is the first he's seen of Allison. Claire hadn't said anything. In fact, now that he thinks about it, it is strange she said nothing about the dweeb or Psycho at all. She'd mentioned Sporto once or twice. But not the two others. Why hadn't he noticed?

"Andy let the jocks think for him. Monday, I tried to... I tried to say something, talk to him... He wouldn't even look at me. The jocks all laughed and he turned his back on me. He ignored me."

He's afraid Psycho might start crying right here on the bus. He turns away and shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably.

"He was always an asshole. Totally." He mocks Andy's words. "And the others?"

"Brian's gone now. Gone to that high power math and science prep school. He had no choice. His parents were always pressuring him." She looks beyond tears now. "He used to sit with me at lunch."

"What about Claire?" Claire interests him. What had she been up to, why had she said nothing to him?

"Claire... She would say hello, but she never really talked to me. And I heard her laughing with her friends. Called me a weirdo and a basket case. Then she stopped pretending."

"Yeah, well, Claire doesn't want to be around me either." Understatement of the year.

The bus wooshes up. They take their seats in silence. It bothers him that Psycho thought he had ditched her after the breakfast club. He wouldn't do something so shitty. Queenie wouldn't have liked it though, if Psycho was right. There was a lot Claire Standish didn't like about him. Why did she get that crazy notion in the closet?

That had gone all wrong. What did Cherry expect? A rich girl like her and a delinquent like himself? They argued, constantly. Let's get sushi, let's get Chinese. Let's see Spinal Tap, let's see Sixteen Candles. Don't even mention music. Duran Duran? And the whole doobage thing. But something must have been right between them... for a while at least. She risked her social position, defied her parents, was willing to give up so much for him. But she thought she could change him into what she wanted. Law abiding, sober, responsible. It was like she had been in love with the potential Bender she imagined lay inside him, not himself.

As for love... he'd never loved her. He'd tried. He'd wanted to. He sometimes deluded himself into thinking he did. Some kind of disability with love, he just couldn't feel it for her... And really, had she loved him either? She never saw the real Bender. He kept himself locked up. The few times he did let down the side a bit, she never seemed to understand what he was showing her.

Sometimes these thoughts start climbing the walls of his mind. He can sleaze up to girls at those big Chicago parties, getting them off by themselves, breaking down resistance using his irresistible Bender moves, leaving them smiling and asking for more... He can do that. But real stuff? He couldn't give Claire what she wanted. Fuck it. Goddamn fuck it. The idea that he is boyfriend material is laughable. Keep filling your wallet with Chicago girls. These high maintenance chicks are not worth it.

It was those pictures that got him at last. Why she gave her virginity to him, he doesn't know. He certainly didn't ask for it. But he accepted what was offered to him. Then, dammit, he screwed up. He should have waited. He shouldn't have brought it up right afterward. Damn, he shouldn't have asked at all. But he did. He'd asked for her picture while she was still catching her breath from the wild ride he'd given her. She knew what all those pictures in his wallet were. Trophies.

Shaking his head, he tries to get rid of the memory of her face draining of color, her indrawn breath, the huge slap she had dealt him. He'd had a red mark on his face for days.

Allison pulling the cord to signal the driver for the next stop draws him from his dark thoughts. He'd forgotten she was there.

Sherwood Heights... he didn't know Psycho's parents rated this neighborhood. She sure doesn't look like a richie. He'd assumed all these Sherwood Heights people were like Claire and her richie friends. Go figure.

"Bye, John," she says as she stands by the rear door, waiting for her stop.

"Yeah, see you Psycho."


	3. A Day In the Life

The next day at the Midas Muffler Shop, it's seven am and his mind is barely functioning. This coffee is shit, thick and burnt, but he drinks it, looking at a tiny orange cloud against the pink sky from the open service bay door.

He's cocooned in a sleepy haze. Then his mind fills with the look on Claire's face just before she slapped him. It's something that comes to him again and again. As he wakes up a bit, he corrals his thoughts. Enough about Claire Standish. He's had enough of good girls and their shit. The chicks he meets at parties in Chicago are much easier to handle.

Not that he gets into the city much anymore. First he was working on getting his GED, and now he is working at Midas. That GED was grueling. The one thing that kept him going was the idea of Vernon. "Look at him – he's a bum. You want to see something funny? You go visit John Bender in five years. You'll see how goddamned funny he is." Fuck if he's going to give Vernon the satisfaction. Vernon might have kicked him out, but he'll be damned if he'll let that dick wad keep him down. The memory of that stupid hand signal... There are more ways than one to get a diploma.

And now, this Midas job... he can't sleep through work, the way he'd slept through classes. He's gotta be on time and in good shape. So, not many parties in Chicago these days. And he needs this job. What he's pulling in is going to the mortgage and light bill. Ma can barely put food on the table with her waitressing job and the old man has run out of unemployment.

The old man... Bender knows what alcohol poisoning looks like, and the old man has been hitting the bottle so hard he ends up there more and more. He sees it... the gray clammy skin, stertorous breathing, the stupor. He could seriously kill himself that way. But the house is safer when he isn't conscious.

The sound of air-power tools pulls him away from his thoughts. Time to get to work.

* * *

After work... Bender thinks over his options. Should he shoot some pool over at Charity's, alone? But the idea sounds better than reality. A lonely beer and shooting pool against himself is not a great way to kill time.

So he heads over to Pete's Short Stop, burns one behind the dumpsters.

He's pretty sure the people in the kitchen know what he's doing, but Pete seems in the dark.

He gets himself a cherry slushy. Sitting out on Pete's deck in the sun is nice as his mind drifts on the reefer.

When he's stoned he can sometimes reach a state of detachment that allows him to simply take in what he sees without all that noise in his head.

He finishes the slushy and gets on Lakewood Avenue, walking towards Sunset Court.

No point in rushing, nothing waiting for him at home. He absorbs the colors of the houses and trees and sidewalk. Even the gray concrete has a beautiful blue tinge. He likes Lakewood, but soon enough he turns down Sunset Court, back to reality.

It crawls up his spine, this slum. Passing the trailer park, even its scabrous wooden fence, makes his stomach knot. It's not just a trailer park, which would be OK with him. But the place floods due to blocked sewer grates, mosquitoes breed in stagnant puddles rimmed with scum, raw sewerage leaks from under the trailers. It reeks. He may be a Sunset Court boy, but his mother has kept them out of that trailer park.

As usual, his sister Carey is home before him. She comes running to the door, waving a finger painting like a flag.

"I made this for you, Johnny!" It has blue and green blotches. Kind of nice looking actually.

"That's pretty, Carey. I'll put it on the fridge."

He picks an empty spot, down where she can see it, and lets a magnet clunk it onto the fridge.

"Ma, you making something for dinner?"

She doesn't look away from her soap opera. "Take out the garbage. Do something around here for once."

Nothing for dinner then. Looking through the cabinets, he comes up with a can of ravioli. He heats it and spoons a bit out for Carey before he serves himself. She probably needs dinner too. She takes her bowl under the kitchen table. He leans against the counter and watches her while he sucks down his serving. She's talking to her little pony toy as she eats.

What can she be saying? Little girls... he's decided they belong to an alien race. And honestly, they become even less comprehensible when they are older.

His own ravioli gone, he takes out the garbage.

He hopes the old man won't get home from Smokey's Tavern until after everyone goes to bed.

Up in his room, he gets out his bass, a piece of shit from the pawn shop. But it lets him practice. He goes through Paranoid a few times. He was covering it, with Sean on guitar and Anders on drums, in Sean's basement. Sean and Anders took off though; they're in the city now. He doesn't even have his own amp. But it feels good to let his fingers go through the familiar motions.

With everyone gone off to Chicago, he's desperate enough to take up reading. He resurrected some of those books he was assigned in school but never read. This one is pretty good, about people who take some drug called soma and have orgies. He never knew these books had orgies and drugs. He might have paid more attention if he had.

He sets his alarm, gets ready to sleep.


	4. Cap'n Crunch

Tuesday afternoon rolls around again. Same old Psycho coming along the street.

He's really not in the mood for idle conversation. He grunts a greeting and stands in silence until the bus comes.

Last night had been a bad one. The old man came home from the bar early last night, still coherent enough to rag on Ma. He hustled Carey upstairs before the shouting started. It sucks she is sent to her room before bedtime. She still hears them going at it though... It's bad for her, but what can he do? He himself retreated to his own room, rolled a joint, tried to relax and forget the bad old days, when things were totally beyond his control...

Every night, a whipping with the belt for some imagined crime. It didn't matter if he obeyed or got into trouble, he always got a beating. So he figured, getting a beating no matter what, he might as well do what he wanted. That led to trouble in school, but who gave a fuck? They certainly didn't. Then the old man would knock Ma around for not being the perfect wife. Some nights, when he'd been drinking more than usual, the old man would have raging fits of even greater violence. Every once in a while Bender would end up in the hospital. That meant social services. Not like they ever did anything, just send him back home after a couple of days in juvenile. It was the white rages that scared him the most... cold deliberate torture. That cigar burn.

Never knowing meant he had to be ready all the time.

The old man wised up when he realized Bender was a full 6 feet tall and filling out. Bender stood eye to eye with him now. That stopped Bender Sr. from hitting him and Ma. Things are at least that safe now. His old man still curses him every chance he gets, but that's old. What he really hates is the way he gives Ma such a tongue lashing when he's coherent. Fix me this, bring me that, stupid bitch, whore. She isn't exactly a sweetheart, bitch bitch bitch all the time. But she doesn't deserve his father's verbal pounding. And, he suspects, she might still get it when he's not around. What can he do about that either?

He is inadvertently distracted by Psycho pulling the cord to signal for the next stop, far before her own.

"What are you doing, Psycho?"

"I have things to do here."

"In this neighborhood? It's worse than mine!"

"I need to go to the grocery store; it's on the way home," she says.

"You can't go there!" It comes out reflexively. It's a war zone here.

"I CAN," she proclaims.

He's pissed now, just one more thing, Psycho getting crazy ideas.

"Why do you need to go to the grocery store anyway? Don't your parents do the shopping?"

"They're out of town."

"C'mon, you can't need groceries that bad. You'll be jacked."

"I'll be fine." Contentiously.

"Psycho," he tries to be reasonable, "You really don't want to be wandering around this neighborhood. Take my word for it, it's not a healthy place for a girl from the Heights."

She doesn't respond, except by gathering her bag up and readying herself to exit the bus.

He makes a quick survey of the bus, Allison, the run-down street going by. Playing guardian angel is not his thing, but Jesus, this place is scary. "Let me walk you."

"I can go alone," she defies him.

Christ on a crutch, here he is, twisting Psycho's arm to keep her from ending up with a toe-tag, just so he can have the honor of escorting her on a goddamned errand. Obstinate.

"Look, I'm hungry and all we have are TV dinners. If I walk you home, can you give me dinner?" He hopes this works. "Fair's fair."

Allison looks down with a tiny smile. "OK," she says.

* * *

"I can tell how long my parents will be away by how many twenties they stick to the fridge door," Allison says around a hugely crunching sandwich of white bread and Cap'n Crunch breakfast cereal. "There were three twenties, so they'll be away for a while." She says this matter-of-factly.

They are sitting on stools at the white counter that divides the kitchen from the shadowy living room, in Allison's condo. He's having difficulty with his peanut butter and jelly sandwich because of his splinted finger.

Her calm explanation makes him unbend a bit. Psycho might be a weirdo, but she accepts things as they are.

"I think they're in the Caribbean again. I saw a ticket that said Aruba."

"And they don't tell you? Just leave money around the house?"

"Oh," says Allison, "if I'm around, they'll say something. But if they leave while I'm at school, well- I come home to twenty dollar bills."

"Jeez, I thought the Bender family cornered the market on affection. That's why I saw you in juvenile hall a few of years ago? They left you alone?"

He uses a casual tone because nothing is as bad as people acting shocked. Cherry was always shocked and that just made it worse. It was like- he needed to comfort her, after she heard how bad things were. He ended up telling Claire as little as possible, to avoid the scenes.

"Yeah. I was fourteen. The neighbors called social services when I set off the smoke alarm and had to ask them for help." As she looks off pensively, cereal falls from her sandwich onto the plate with a tinking sound.

Allison looks around. "Why were you there that time?"

"Concussion." His voice cuts off the discussion.

She draws herself up and solemnly addresses him. "You don't have to tell me how you got your black eye and broke your finger. But it matters to me."

Little Queenie said she cared, but she just wanted to be a psychological Florence Nightingale. Her prodding and drama were for her own benefit, earning brownie points with a higher power or something. But Psycho here... He believes she does care. Somehow that hurts. He drops the sandwich, pulls himself together and looks up.

"Yeah well, I boozed it up a bit too much and fell while trying to climb a fence. What's one concussion, more or less?" He can feel his smile twist.

Time to go. He got Psycho home safe, despite her determination to get herself jumped. Mission accomplished. He pushes back his half eaten sandwich.

"Gotta book. See you Psycho," and he's outta there.


	5. Switchblade

Once again, Tuesday sees Bender by the bus stop. Here comes Psycho. This seems to be a regular thing.

He can't say he's happy to see her. He doesn't exactly advertise his trips to the social services building. One thing he can count on with Psycho though... she doesn't have anyone she could reveal this information to, she doesn't have any friends. She probably wouldn't blab anyway. She didn't give a hint in detention that she'd seen him in juvenile hall all those years ago. He'd actually wondered if she'd forgotten.

"Hey Psycho," he says unenthusiastically.

"Hi John." She's spaced as usual, and they stand in silence.

Eventually their bus comes and they take their same seats in the back. Thinking of detention, curiosity strikes him. "Hey Psycho, do you still have my switchblade?"

Allison puts the tip of her finger in her mouth and looks sideways at him. She looks like she might try to deny taking it.

"Oh no, you can keep it. I just wondered where it had gotten to."

"It's right here," she says, rummaging in her bag, getting ready to pull something out.

"Oh Jesus, don't take that out here!" That's Psycho all over, brandishing switchblades on a public bus."Don't you know they're illegal?"

She shakes her head.

"Psycho, it ain't safe to let you out alone."

"You have something too," Allison gestures towards his earring. "Isn't that Claire's?"

"Payment for services rendered." His smile warps into something ugly.

She looks like she's about to say something. He doesn't let her start.

"Cherry went on her merry way, game over. This might come in handy the next time I need bail."

He's never been arrested and doesn't anticipate needing bail. But it's one way to get her off his back.

As she finishes her rummaging, her sketch book falls from her purse and a small photo lodged in it flutters out. He grabs it. Andy. He tucks it back in without mention.

"Can I look?" he asks. She nods abstractedly.

He flips through the book. It's small and filled with sketches of every day objects- a pair of shoes, several cats, a coke bottle, some scissors... and a few landscapes. He pauses on a sketch of his knife. The knife rests against a sliced apple. The charcoal strokes are smooth and mild. It is almost tender. How could she feel so much about a knife? He is curious about the other sketches. The small things seem freighted with emotion, but the panoramas are empty and sad. One shows the front of Shermer High. It's deserted. There's not a single person in the book, except that loose photo of Andy.

"Why are there no people?" he asks.

"People aren't necessary." She crumples, folding back into herself.

He kicks himself. That question was a fuck up.

"Well," he says, with an attempt at lightness, "You don't have to ask a pear to stand still. Much easier to draw." He displays the page with a pear, looking so soft it seems he could dent it with his thumb.

He's serious when he says, "These are good." He hands the book back.

"Thank you."

They sit quietly.

"Hey, here's your stop."

She pulls the cord to signal the driver. At the stop, he piles out behind her.

"Where do you live?" she asks. "This isn't your neighborhood."

"Yeah, well, not all of us are so fortunate as to live in Sherwood Heights, " he lashes out. Being told he doesn't belong in this part of town bites deep.

She stops. He keeps walking a few steps and then looks back. She's not trying to put him in his place, she seems to simply want to know where he lives. The surge of anger passes.

"Maybe I'll bring you around to Sunset Court one day to meet the folks," he says. "You might get a chance to use that knife of yours if my old man gets too friendly."

He walks with her to the corner of Lakewood Avenue and Page Street, leaving Allison to turn off onto her own street. "Got some business up here," he gestures vaguely and continues up Lakewood.

* * *

He's on his way home from his business, a deal with George Hardy. He had promised George a quarter bag.

He can see through George; he doesn't like Bender any more than Bender likes him. Another Sherwood Heights dick. Just a connection. But it seems like that's all he has these days. Nicki, Jeff, Anders, Sean, they all moved to Chicago after graduation, getting away from Shermer bullshit. Who is left? Moochers and poseurs. He's sick of these little shits who can't make it on their own and turn to him for drugs, a reputation, invitations to Chicago parties. As if. But that is who is left. People like George Hardy.

He hopes that if he takes his own sweet time, Bender Sr. will be unconscious by the time he gets home. How did Psycho say it… "My home life is unsatisfying." Hah, that about covers the Bender family situation.

He lights a match with his teeth, starts a fat joint and strolls down Lakewood Avenue towards Sunset Court.

The high comes down on him like a soft heavy hand, making him glow a bit inside. Everything seems alright, here on Lakewood Avenue. Victorian houses glow in the dusk. Here is peace and quiet, something he never gets at home. TV blasting, parents arguing, Ma bitching, always something. The colors deepen and a nice buzz settles on him. He feels bigger and smaller at once, dwarfed by the old trees and made cozy by the houses with their curlicues and warped glass windows.

Now it's time for Pete's Short Stop. As he watches Pete ladle gooey cheese onto his chips, his mind drifts to Psycho. Her sideways looks. He feels like he's dealing with a feral cat with her: wild and easily startled. A cat? Man, this is some good shit.

He snorts. Pete looks at him strangely. He can barely contain his laughter long enough to pay Pete for his nachos. He lets out a little giggle as he pushes through the exit door.

The nachos are gone by the time he passes the trailer park and enters Sunset Court. His high disappears quickly as he comes up to his house. Now is the chancy part.

Will the old man be out cold?

He eases in the front door to be greeted by the blare of TV. Carey will be in bed by now. She goes to bed early enough to miss the worst of their father's behavior. He tries to protect her. And to give her credit, Ma tries too.

He's out of luck tonight. The old man is still conscious... just barely. He's wearing his stained athletic singlet over a paunch, pushed back into the recliner by the weight of alcohol. He rolls his head towards Bender.

"Whash you doin' boy?" He is almost unintelligible. "No good, lazy bastard."

"Yeah yeah, stinking disrespectful asshole, too," Bender finishes for him. His father is too loaded to even notice this and his pointing hand falls back to the recliner arm. Now he's really out. Bender turns off the TV and heads upstairs, to bed. Work tomorrow.


	6. Safe Sex and Other Oddities

Another Tuesday finds Bender in the same place.

He's not surprised when Psycho shambles down the street to the bus stop. She seems to get there by accident. How does she navigate, with her head down and eyes covered with her bangs? Just when he thinks she will wander into the road or walk right past him she looks up, distracted and distant. "Hi John."

"Yo."

She always calls him John. Not many people do. Not even Cherry did, on a regular basis. Mainly when she wanted to discuss "feelings." It felt sort of creepy and artificial after a while. She'd go off on all this perplexing shit, being open and honest (wasn't he always honest? What the fuck did that mean?), being available (he took down his available sign when he started going with her, he was all hers, no other girls, what did she want?), and always, always, when they argued about weed. Well, she seemed to think there was some kind of argument, but he had no intention of ditching the doobage, so it was basically her talking to a brick wall.

While he is mulling this over, the bus arrives. He's as zoned as Psycho today. They board and she takes her seat next to him. She immediately begins burrowing in her purse.

"Psycho, what are you looking for in there? You spend half your life digging through your bag."

"I keep losing my keys. I mean, they are there, but I can't find them," she says.

He watches the plundering of the bag, getting glimpses of the most tantalizing things... he thinks he actually sees a pair of panties, but he's not sure.

"Ah ha!" She finally pulls the keys free, deposits them in an inner pocket.

"What on earth do you keep in there, Psycho? It's as big as a bomb shelter." He tries to peep in. She grabs it away from him.

"I have... vitamins, aspirin, band aids, neosporin, my sketch book," she displays the book, " an extra scarf, condoms, The Little Prince, chapstick, a note pad, pencils," she rattles a tin box, "rubber eraser, my wallet..."

She is ready to go on, but he says, "Whoa, Psycho, did you say condoms?" He suspects this might be a fiction on her part. But she reveals several square packets.

"Why do you need condoms?" Then he realizes this is indiscreet. He was caught off guard. He puts his hands up and says "Say no more. A woman needs to be prepared for all possibilities."

She laughs and gives him a sidelong look. "They give them free at the lesbian book store... you know, safe sex."

"Safe sex?" Psycho knows something about sex he's never even HEARD of?

"What," he asks, "do lesbians need CONDOMS for?" He realizes he just shouted and makes hushing motions as if someone else had been yelling.

He lowers his voice. "Psycho, what are you talking about?"

"Well, you know... AIDS. Safe sex?" She says this as if it were common terminology.

"Wait wait wait, dykes get AIDS too? How do condoms help lesbos?" He is alive with curiosity, his wallet chain jingling.

"No , the condoms are for gay men. Gay men go to book stores too. But anyone can take one or two. It's always good to be safe."

"What are you doing in lesbian book stores anyway? You're not... But Andy..." he's confused.

"I buy BOOKS at the lesbian bookstore. They have good art books." She is laughing her patently Allison laugh.

There is definitely more to Psycho than meets the eye. He wants to know more about her need for condoms and her trips to queer book stores, but clamps down on his curiosity. He respects the privacy of others.

"You," he says, "are a trip." He's still wondering if he actually saw some panties in there. "Why do you carry all of that shit with you everywhere?"

She stops laughing. Seriously, she answers "You never know when you might have to take off."

"Take off where?"

"You just never know." That's as much of an answer as he's going to get out of her.

Looking out the window, Allison is annoyed. "Oh no! We went past the grocery store!"

Good thing, he thinks. He doesn't want to play escort through a war zone again. Stubborn girl.

"You can go to the one on Shermer Boulevard," he suggests.

"Hm, yeah, I guess. I'm starving though, and it'll take forever to get back to the condo."

"So grab something from Pete's." He consults his appetite. "I'm hungry too. We could share some nachos."

Pete's is located on the borderline between Sherwood Heights and the rest of lowly Shermer. Shermer Boulevard runs right through the city, a partition. They hop off the bus on the corner of Shermer Boulevard and Lakewood and approach the convenience store/deli.

Allison shops for pixie stix flavors while he orders nachos and they meet on the deck. He prevents her from sprinkling their food with pixie stix.

"Psycho, do you eat anything besides sugar?"

"I eat peanut butter. And nachos," is her smart ass reply.

"No, really, can you cook anything at all?" He truly wants to know.

"I can make coffee... and tea. Does toast count?"

Seriously? And they leave her alone all the time? He groans.

"Why? What can you make, John?"

"Um... more than toast."

"Like what?"

"Meat... pork chops, steaks, burgers, sausages; and eggs, and grilled cheese, and steamed vegetables. You know, things you'd eat for _meals._ Not crazy pixie stix and cereal sandwiches."

"I like pixie stix and cereal sandwiches!"

He rolls his eyes.

"Well, where did you learn to cook?" she inquires.

"My Aunt Virginia came to help when my sister was born, and taught me a few things."

"You have a sister?"

"Yeah, she's five." He feels good telling Psycho about Carey. Most people, he hides the fact that he has a sister. But Psycho... she's safe. He doesn't think too hard about that idea.

"And you cook for her?"

"Not often, but I can at least open a can of soup or make grilled cheese. Please tell me you know how to heat soup." He's joking, but he sincerely hopes the answer is "yes."

"It is so salty," she complains. "And the cans are so small, there's hardly any in there."

"Don't tell me... you don't know you have to add a can of water?"

"A can of water?"

He collapses on the table, dumbstruck by her complete incompetence with all things culinary.

"Look, Psycho, read the directions. It explains it all. You add a can of water before you heat it. You have that fancy microwave. You can make soup, it is possible."

She looks incredulous.

"Listen, I'll make a bet with you... buy some chicken noodle soup today, try to make it. If you don't succeed, I'll buy you some nachos."


	7. Psycho and the Rats

Next Tuesday, Bender sees Allison again, pushing through the glass doors into the wind. The first words out of her mouth when she reaches the bus stop are "You owe me some nachos!" She looks triumphant. Although why failure to make fool-proof food like chicken soup is anything to make her happy, he doesn't know.

"OK, you're on for nachos, when we get to Pete's."

But he has something else on his mind that has occurred to him several times. He knows why he comes to see Dr. Panz every week, but what could Psycho be doing here? She's no delinquent. Trouble is what lands you with Dr. Panz. You'd expect a guy like himself to get into that kind of trouble, but Allison?

They settle into their usual seats in the back of the bus. He stretches out his legs into the aisle, making himself comfortable.

"Psycho, what brings you out to see our dear old Dr. Panz?" He's hoping for an interesting tale.

"Vandalism."

"No way! You're a vandal?" Psycho tearing things apart? He has a crazy image of her burning a flag. "What did you do?"

"Um... graffiti." She looks out the window, then sits up as the bus stops, pointing. "There! That rat! The pink one!" She points to a utility box covered with graffiti. There is a rat, sure enough... a hot pink rat stenciled on with the letters PETA below. He's seen that rat before, on a utility box near Sunset Court. The one there is black.

"YOU? You do the rat?" He needs more information. "What is PETA? Why a rat? When do you do this?"

"PETA is People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals," she explains. "Rats are tortured and killed by labs. But not just rats... monkeys, rabbits, cats, dogs." She has a wild look in her eye.

Uh-oh, one of these animal people. Best not get side tracked by that.

"But when do you do this? How do you not get spotted?"

"Well, midnight is best... not so early many people will see, but not so late you'll stick out. I do it alone, though. That makes it hard. I read about techniques for evading detection-"

"Read about?" he interrupts. "Where do you read about breaking the law?"

Do they have handbooks?

"Zines." She pulls out a small booklet, obviously home-made, of photocopies. It has a graffiti design on the cover, but he can't make out the stylized letters.

"What is this? Where do you get these?"

"Zines," as if this explains it. "At the record store."

Jeez, this pushes his already generous ideas of how crazy Psycho could get.

"Now wait a second- let me get this straight- you read booklets about graffiti so you can make rats everywhere?"

"Yes," she says, as if this were a normal thing to do.

"How do you not get caught?"

"Well, I DID get caught." She says this ruefully. "If I had someone to help..." She is suddenly looking at him with detached interest, as if sizing him up.

"Oh no, no you don't, don't even think of it Psycho!"

That is the last thing he needs, some NEW way to get busted.

* * *

They get off at Pete's and arrange themselves with some nachos. Being the curious guy he is, he reverts to the rats.

"Why did you start doing graffiti?" he wants to know.

"When I went to the bookstore-"

"The dyke place?" he interrupts.

"Yes. The LESBIAN bookstore. Dyke is insulting."

"Ok, yes, there..." he gestures impatiently for her to continue.

"Well, they have a ton of graffiti down there by the bookstore. Most of it is stupid, just tags, but some of it is political. Gay rights, feminism, anarchy, stuff like that. A lot of the political things look cool. I saw that zine at the record store and got interested, techniques and design. I wondered if I could do it. So I tried." She grins. "It's fun. You should come with me sometime."

"Psycho, I've got enough trouble without adding defacing property to my list of crimes."

"Chickenshit."

"No, worrying about the reefer is enough."

"You're scared?" She is taunting him.

"Not scared, just... cautious."

"I see, too scared of getting busted," she says, voice dripping with mock contempt.

"Psycho, I've got a job I can't lose." He's beginning to feel defensive.

"Sure, I understand... Mr. Important can't have a little fun because he's got responsibilities." Her jabs are hitting home. He's never been a chickenshit in his life.

"Fine! Fine, I'll come with you," he gives in. He's damned if a little girl like her is going to out-do him in balls.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight!"

"We can meet at the Lakewood Avenue Park, at midnight. Wear dark clothes."

"I'll be there!"

* * *

"Psycho! C'mon, someone's coming. Over here!" he says as Allison is putting the finishing touches on her last stencil. They are doing one of the abandoned buildings she'd marked out on their journey. Her planning was elaborate. They are following a bus route so that each design can be seen by bus riders. The two chosen buildings are abandoned and already covered with graffiti, and the three utility boxes are in shadows. This building has an alleyway on its side, and he gestures her into it for cover. The small space is malodorous and something crunches underfoot. Maybe this wasn't the best hiding place? He almost slips on a large forty ounce beer bottle.

"Ew, John, what is this place?"

"I dunno. Someone is coming down the street and we had to get out of sight. Don't like the accommodations?"

"It smells!"

"Well, better than ending up in juvenile again. Shh! Here he comes!"

"He" is a she. As she gets closer, she reveals herself as a street vagabond, laboring under the weight of several proverbial shopping bags. He releases his breath, then notices Allison's small hand on his arm as she peeps around him from her crouching position. He'd instinctively ducked down, pushing her behind him, but now stands up with great relief. He gives her a hand and they emerge.

"Psycho, check your shoes, make sure nothing got on them." A small shard of glass is trying to pierce the sole of his left boot and he prises it out carefully. He hopes her Converse shoes haven't encountered anything so sharp. They're in luck.

"OK, what else is on your plan of destruction?"

She is now standing back admiring her handiwork. Five rats look down upon them, in a row. She'd used red and black, alternately

"We're done. We just need to get rid of these cans," she gestures, one can in each hand. That is easily accomplished. She tosses them into a passing dumpster.

At two AM they are finally back at the Lakewood Avenue park. She is peeling off her rubber gloves, and getting ready to deposit them in a garbage can in the park.

"Oh shit!"

He pulls her by the waist behind the holly bush next to the garbage can, just as a police car glides by. They both peek through the branches, watching the headlights' progress. They're gone. Whew. Then he realizes he's still holding her pressed against him. He lets go, embarrassed. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Look, we better get you home. There are curfew laws."

"You don't have to walk all the way to my house. I'm safe in the Heights," she says, readjusting her bag across her chest.

"You THINK you're safe in the Heights. I'd better take you all the way."

She shrugs.

* * *

In the parking lot, they see her parents' car. The condo is strangely lit up, for 2 o'clock in the morning.

They look at each other and Allison mouths "Oh shit!" She's suddenly pushing him away, whispering "Go! Get out of here! They haven't seen you yet!"

Too late. Mr. Reynolds has been on the watch. Bender sees Mr. Reynolds see him, clear as day. For a split second, he wavers... he can get away, he has a head start, he knows a couple of short cuts... but he can't leave Psycho like this... but he could be charged with some serious things... The wavering ends. He stays. Mr. Reynolds comes down the stairs and grabs Allison's arm.

"Hey! Keep your hands off her!"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do with my own daughter," he says, but releases her. "Inside, both of you!"

They follow his command. Bender is boiling, how could he grab her like that! Next thing he could be shaking her, pushing her, really hurting her. No one is going to do that while he is here. He grinds his teeth and gets himself under control. He's no good to her in a rage. Once he gets started, it gets out of control. He has to break it off and stay cool.

"Turn out your bag." Allison has no choice but to reveal her stencil template. The gloves and paint are gone, but this incriminating evidence remains.

"It was my idea, Dad. Don't do anything... He just found me on Lakewood Avenue, he made me come home. He wanted me to get home safe," she pleads. "The paint, it was my idea... he wasn't there for that."

He tries to look virtuous rather than pissed off. He fails, by the expression on Mr. Reynolds' face.

"Contributing to the delinquency of a minor is serious," Mr. Reynolds growls.

"Dad, he stopped me, he didn't help me, he made me come home." She is wringing her hands. Bender can't stand to see her beseeching him like this.

"And how can you prove that, young lady? No, I don't think this hoodlum is going to get away with this." He glares at Bender. "You're from Sunset Court, aren't you?"

Bender swallows and keeps his mouth shut. All the years of beatings have given him iron self control in the face of injustice. This is not the time to lash out. Cold deliberation comes over him, he actually feels ice sliding down his spine. He's thinking how to get Allison out of this mess.

"Please don't be mad. He didn't do anything wrong," she implores.

"There is no way this scumbag could be up to anything good and I'll make him pay his dues. I'm calling the police."

"No." She is not begging like a child now. "No, father. You're not going to call him a scumbag. You're not going to blame him for everything. You're not going to get him in trouble with the police."

"Who will people believe? A child like you and a delinquent like him?" Mr. Reynolds looks like he is certain everything is under control.

"He has guarded my safety, he has cared for me. He's BEEN HERE. You're not going to do this." Her voice is hard as nails.

Mr. Reynolds seems taken aback by this.

"Look here, missy, you're not going to speak to me in this way."

"Why don't you go back to the Caribbean! You don't care about me, why does it matter who I spend my time with? You're never here! HE'S been here, not you!"

What the hell? Bender wonders where this has come from. Guarded her safety? Cared for her? Been here?

"I won't take this anymore, young lady. You will go to your room and I will deal with this matter."

"Make me. Go ahead, make me!"

Mr. Reynolds takes a step towards her, anger on his face. Bender takes one step too, up to Allison's side. He folds his arms and makes his physical presence felt. Mr. Reynolds looks up at him, seems to realize he is the smaller man.

"You can get your goon to threaten me, but the police will hear about that too, when I call them."

"No one," she breaks off the words like ice, "has threatened you. Yet. But I'll change that for you."

Now she is smiling, not a pleasant smile. "Dr. Panz, at Social Services, might be interested to know you left me alone, unsupervised, for three weeks last month."

Mr. Reynolds blanches.

"I've got the plane ticket stubs to prove it."

Bender is beyond surprise. Psycho is blackmailing her father? This is even weirder than her protecting him and all those things she said about him.

"I will put away my spray paint and abide by the law. But you will not hurt John, and you will not stop me from seeing him."

She wants to see him? What does that mean? They ride the bus together, that's all...

"John, you can go now. We have reached an understanding. Haven't we, father?"

Bender reluctantly relaxes his protective position and glares at Mr. Reynolds, who is looking decidedly cowed. Everything in Bender's body and face tells Mr. Reynolds who he will have to answer to if Allison comes to any harm.

He gives Allison's shoulder a quick squeeze and departs.


	8. Lightning

It's 4 in the morning by the time he gets home. Why bother sleeping?

He thinks over all that happened tonight. She said he'd been there. Well, and that was true, he guesses, every Tuesday he was there. And he had guarded her... that was true too, he'd walked her to the grocery store. And he admits they have seen each other outside of their bus rides... the grocery store, the graffiti expedition, nachos. But hearing it in her words, it adds up to more than he'd ever considered.

He's too tired to think about this.

He knows one thing though, no one is going to lay a finger on her.

* * *

Two hours later he is pacing in front of Midas, and jumps on Joe the minute he gets up to the door.

"Joe, I've got something really important to take care of at 2. Can you swing letting me off an hour early today?"

"Sure, Bender, no problem."

* * *

He is leaning against the fence of the lacrosse field when school lets out.

"John!" She see him first.

He looks around, gives her a lopsided smile. She shyly smiles back.

Then he's serious.

"Psycho- he didn't hit you, did he?" He knows it's unlikely, but it is the first thing he thinks of.

"No," she assures him. "I took care of things." Her pale skin is lit up and she looks gleeful.

"What does that mean?"

"I dictated my terms. They have no choice."

A slow smile is spreading across his face.

"And what exactly are your terms?"

"Oh, just that things stay the same... they mind their own business and I do what I like, within the limits of the law." She looks a bit regretful when she adds "I threw away my stencils and spray paint."

"I'm sorry about the paint. But everything is cool? No problems?"

"No problems, everything is good. About as good as its going to get."

"Psycho, this calls for a celebration! But damn, you're underage."

"Why does that matter?" Allison asks.

"Well, I always celebrate at Charity's."

"The biker bar?"

"Nah, it's not a real biker bar. The weekend bouncers are bikers so they lend a little flavor to the establishment, but it is really just a neighborhood bar."

He grins at her. "Your old man would love it."

Allison snorts at this idea.

"Hm… where can an experienced hoodlum and a professional black mailer celebrate their business successes?"

"Well, I'm hungry. Maybe we could get something to eat?" Allison suggests.

They decide to go to Pete's. Allison stocks up on pixie sticks, and they share some nachos out on the deck.

After she finishes with the nachos, Allison seems to do some serious thinking. She opens her mind to him. Her parents don't give a damn about her, just about their tropical holidays. She doesn't really want them around more now than they had been around before. But her threat will make them want to change their ways just to cover their asses. Maybe she can bargain with them…?

He chews that over for a while.

"Well," he finally says, "you have to talk to them face-to-face, but don't be confrontational."

She gives a little squeak.

"You want to reassure them, not scare them. Scared people do stupid shit."

She listens on.

"Let them know they can still enjoy their decadent nomadic life style they like so much. They're greedy enough to want that."

"How do you know so much about blackmail?" she asks.

"Sweets, what I know about are the shitty assholes of the world. It doesn't matter how rich or poor, they're all the same."

* * *

At home, he wishes he'd asked her to call him at work. (He doesn't want her to have his home phone number. She doesn't need to deal with Ma or, God forbid, the old man.) He spends a while thinking, back and forth, wondering what is going on. Then he gets out his bud, rolls a fat one, relaxes some. Psycho did great when they practiced. She is one tough customer, under her spacey-ness. He drifts, thinking of her face, the jubilant look she had when talking about her blackmailing project. Then thinking about other expressions he's seen on her face. How she looks at him sometimes...

His hand goes up to the earring Claire gave him. He's worn it so long, but it doesn't mean the same thing anymore. He thinks about that day, after detention, when he first put it in. It was a big Fuck you to the rest of the world which said a thug like himself couldn't be with a good girl from the Heights. Then it was a big Fuck you at Claire for a long time. He told himself he'd suckered her and that he hung on to the earring for its monetary value. Now he's through with that lie. He takes Claire's earring out and lays it carefully in a small box, which he places on the mantle in his room. Then he puts in his old lightning bolt earring.

He calls the shop first thing in the morning, begs to be a couple of hours late today. Joe is accommodating, but he senses this won't go on. He doesn't want to become unreliable. This job is his chance to prove Vernon wrong. He was up front with Joe when he'd not even had a GED, saying he'd get one and be going to the community college the next year. Joe had held the job for him, for the two weeks until he got his GED results. Joe seems to like the idea of him getting more qualified. Yeah, Joe is a good guy, but he can't push it too far.

* * *

He catches her at the bus stop on her way to school.

"Psycho! How'd it go?"

"I- I'm not sure... I think it went great, actually," she decides. She bounces a little, glowing.

"But…" now she's worried again. "How will I know it's worked?"

"Easy," he assures her, "just see if they start gallivanting about again, leaving twenties on the fridge."

"Oh I hope you're right," she sighs. "How long do you think…"

"You'll find out pretty soon. They're greedy people, they want what they want. I won't be surprised if you come home today to a couple of twenties stuck to the fridge."

He waits with her at the school bus stop and gives her shoulder a squeeze as they part.

"Call me when you get home!"

* * *

Sooner than he has any hope to expect it, Ken calls him in for the phone. He needs to keep it short, no personal calls. "Allison! What happened?" He knows he sounds worried.

"It's all good, just like you said." She's happy.

"Hey, I can't talk now," he's a bit abrupt. "Can I come by tonight?"

"Sure."

"OK, sweets, I'll be there about 6."

"I can't wait!" He hangs up.

* * *

He works at the lug nuts quickly and automatically. She had said "I can't wait."

He goes through the motions of rotating the tires on the Mercedes efficiently, his mind dwelling on her happy voice. How did this happen? How's she become so important to him? He's been so engrossed in reacting to this business with her old man it hasn't crossed his mind to wonder about that.

Crazy old Psycho... She's a slippery one. One thing about Allison- she's always so very much Allison. At school, people make fun of her, but that has never stopped her from being exactly who she is. And she is outrageous! Lesbian book stores, stealing switchblades, spray painting rats all over town for god's sake. However much she makes excursions into the fanciful, she's the most genuine person he's met.

That day in detention, she'd been entirely transparent, not afraid to say she cared about people's hearts dying. About HIS heart dying. She has always cared. She feels so much, sometimes, that it hurts him. His modus operandi has always been to not care, not to feel. It's easier that way, and he usually convinces himself he doesn't care. Usually. But she cares. Cares about him.

Maybe it all started that first day at her condo. He has never been any lower than on that day, and it was as if she slipped her hand right around his heart when she said he mattered to her. He's good at pushing feelings, people, caring away, but he just couldn't deny her, no matter how he tried.

The lift whirs down and he backs the Mercedes out of the service bay. Keys in hand, he walks through the door to the customer waiting area to leave the keys and invoice with Ken at the counter. Even as far back as that day in juvenile hall, something about her made him…

He recognizes that red hair. It's little Queenie, Claire Standish herself. She has her wallet out and is talking to Ken. Her eyes drift over and fix on Bender as Ken takes her platinum American Express. Then her eyes keep moving past him without acknowledging him, trying to ignore him... and failing to do so. This time, he sincerely doesn't care. Unconsciously his hand goes to where Claire's earring has been so long, and finds his lightning bolt. He starts whistling and slides the keys down the counter. His mischievous side can't help giving her the devastating Bender smile when she covertly glances back. She can't ignore him any better today than she'd been able to those many months ago.

* * *

He is laden with bags again when he shows up at 6. Allison takes them from him, beaming.

"Well, Psycho, I hope you have an appetite tonight because we're going to celebrate," he says as he hands the bags over.

"Oooh! What's for dinner?" She gives a little squeak.

"Look and see," he suggests.

She starts digging through the bags like it is Christmas day. She comes up with a bundle of asparagus, and looks quite puzzled.

"What are these, John? They look weird, they are so pointy," she says.

"You've never seen asparagus before?"

"Umm, I don't really eat… vegetables," she says as if vegetables are from outer space.

As he lays the ribeyes onto the broiling pan he says, "Look at this, see this marbling? The sure sign of a good steak."

"Marbles? Where?" Allison looks interested, as if he might pull some marbles out of his pocket.

He sighs, gives her a look.


	9. Smooth Moves

He is in agonies. He can't do it. He can't. They are washing dishes. This is the time, he tells himself. You set the mood, now make your move. You've done it a million times. That heart melting smile… no woman has ever been able to resist it.

But he can't. Psycho, Allison, she's not a girl for the wallet full of trophies. He can't put the moves on her. He's not sure what he feels, but whatever he feels, it doesn't inspire seduction. It is a strange position for him, a desirable woman he doesn't want to subject to the Bender technique. It leaves him at a loss.

He's careful not to touch her hand now. No smooth moves. He realizes they are pressed shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Should he move away? Should he stay where he is? She solves the problem by turning away, putting a pot into the cabinet. He skedaddles. He's safely in the living room.

Now he's really worried. He has never thought about it… what if she doesn't feel anything for him? He has always considered himself universally irresistible, but Allison is no ordinary girl. Oh goddammit, this is like some horrible cliché out of a Harlequin romance novel. Maybe he'd better just go.

"Hey, Psycho. Look, I need to take off. Um, work tomorrow." He tries to make himself stop shifting from foot to foot.

Is it his imagination, or does she look disappointed? Man this is making him crazy. Now he is nervously bouncing on his feet. He can't wait to get away.

But when will he see her again? He doesn't want to wait until next Tuesday. He senses things have crossed over some line, that the Tuesday ritual is over. They are no longer just happening to meet at some public place by accident. They are deliberate. Like _friends._ Tomorrow is too soon though. He doesn't want to smother her. Today is Thursday.

"Allison, maybe I could see you Saturday?" He feels ridiculous.

Her face is open. She's smiling. That's good.

"Sure, John."

"I'll call you Saturday. At about 3?"

He's out the door with a wave.

He's on the stairs down when he realizes. Oh dammit. He doesn't have her number. He runs back up.


	10. The Old Man

Damn. Surprised doesn't cover it. That crazy Psycho... she snuck up on him. Look at him, the nervous suitor, on pins and needles, acting like someone he'd always found incomprehensible. He'd thought the boyfriend thing was all a put-on, to get next to the girls, and that he was just more honest about his motives. Even with Claire, he felt like an actor. He never thought... Wait! The boyfriend thing? He wants to be a boyfriend? For real? Jesus. Psycho doesn't need a boyfriend though... or does she? Does she want one? What has he gotten himself into?

Most of the lights on his own street have winked out when he finally gets there. Sunset Court is quiet. His usual resentment at the condition of his neighborhood is gone, he's too preoccupied to notice it. The light of a television screen shows in the living room window. Tonight, especially tonight, he doesn't want to find his father awake. This whole day has been just crazy. He doesn't want to be crushed by his father's curses for once. Come to think of it, he hasn't seen the old man conscious in a week. He's been slipping in after he passes out and works starts so early...

From the porch, he hears him raging in the kitchen, then the distinct smack of a blow.

He bursts into the living room. Pounding through the hallway, he sees Carey on the top step, her eyes wide, listening.

"Go to your room!" he shouts. "Now!"

He pushes through the swinging door so hard the door bangs against the refrigerator. He sees John Sr., his hand raised to strike, but he turns when Bender rushes in. John Sr. sways and focuses on him, the same hateful face glowering in a slack mask created by alcohol.

Bender reaches down into the bedrock of his deepest self and pulls up the words "Stop it. **NOW**."

"You no good lazy fucking bag of shit," John Sr. begins. "What tha fuck you think you're doin'?"

He has never faced off with his father like this. The old man raises his hand for a backhanded belt.

It only takes three hits. His father collapses across the kitchen table and slides to the floor. Bender grabs his shirt and raises the panting man's face to his. "No more, old man. There will be no more. Do you understand me? Lay one finger on Ma, that's it. You're done."

He lets go of the shirt. He feels dirty, his knuckles smart, one is split. The sight of his father on the floor with fear in his eyes floods him with revulsion. He doesn't want revenge, he doesn't want to create that look of fear in anyone, not even his father. He just wants some peace. He wants the hitting to stop.

"Ma, call the cops."

The police come, sirens wailing. They stop in front of the Bender house, lights still pulsing.

They remove John Sr., take statements, fill out paperwork, talk on their radios. He is so tired. They talk about court appearances, restraining orders, pressing charges. His mother looks shell shocked. It takes an hour to calm Carey. She's asleep under his coat on the sofa.

Eventually the police leave. He takes Carey up to her bed. His mother has stopped crying. The house is quiet. Why couldn't this have happened years ago? He hopes Carey doesn't remember much. She's very young.

He can't sleep in this house tonight. He pulls on his coat, replaces his red wool scarf and lets himself out. He walks randomly. He wants to cleanse himself in the cold night air. He is on Lakewood Avenue now. He doesn't know how long he's been walking. The Victorian houses are dark and pools of shadow collect beneath the trees. And here is Page Street. He turns left without thinking, walks down the cul de sac and looks up at Allison's bedroom window. He stands by the dumpster, he doesn't know why, looking up at her window for a long time. Something, perhaps the intensity of his gaze, wakes her. Suddenly her pale face is at the window. She opens it to the frigid night air

"John?" she whispers. "Come upstairs. It's cold."

He allows Allison to help him take off his coat, his jean jacket. The warmth of the condo penetrates. He loosens up. She is unsnapping his gloves. He's never without his gloves and she'll know why now. The old scars are circular, on thebacks of both hands. Like the scar on his inner arm but smaller, old cigarette burns. She doesn't flinch. She just takes one hand in both of her own and looks up at him. He finally focuses his eyes.

"John, what happened tonight?"

He senses her thin white gown, her bare arms.

"It's over. He won't touch us ever again. Me or Ma." His voice doesn't sound like his own.

She reaches up to hug him. His hands go around her waist; he feels the flimsy material, her soft warm flesh beneath.

"Come on John."

Allison leads him by the hand to her room. Her bed is piled with clothes. She sweeps them off.

"Take off your boots."

He obeys. She sits next to him on the bed and holds him for a long time. He fastens on to her strength. When he stops shaking, she pulls him into bed with her. Her small body curls around him, warm against his back. She strokes his hair until he falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes to streaming sunlight. At first he doesn't know where he is. Allison's scent is all around him. He still has his clothes on. Dazed, he stumbles out to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face wakes him up a bit. He smells coffee. He finds Allison sitting at the table. She is dressed in her usual gray monochrome, but her hair is held back with a rust colored scarf. She has a sketch book in front of her which she closes upon seeing him. Smiling, she indicates the coffee pot. There's a mug for him. He pours some coffee, glad for the mug set out for him, as if he belongs here in this kitchen. Then he leans against the counter.

"Allison…" He doesn't know what to say next.

"I called work for you," she says.

"Oh shit! Work!" He looks at the microwave clock. It is noon.

"I talked to your manager, Joe. He's got your shift covered. It's OK."

"What did he say? What did you say?"

"I just said a family emergency arose." She smiles her mischievous grin. "I said I was your Aunt Virginia."

"Thank you Aunt Virginia." He gives her a crooked smile.

"Listen, I need to go home. My sister…"

She squeezes his hand. "I hope things are going to be OK."

"They're definitely going to be better in the long run, but Carey might be totally freaked out right now."

He puts on his coat and quickly leaves.


	11. The Third Degree

Carey is hiding under her bed. His mother has been trying to coax her out. Ma jumps up when Bender walks in.

"Johnny, thank god. Maybe she'll listen to you."

He eventually convinces her it is safe and she crawls out, into his arms. "Johnny, where were you?" she asks.

"I'm here now, honey." She's wrapped herself around him and won't let go.

His mother doesn't ask where he was. She doesn't say much, in fact. She looks as scared and confused as Carey.

He fixes Carey a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and she climbs in his lap falls asleep almost immediately. Her warm weight is comforting. His mother comes down stairs, looking a little less disheveled and stricken. She sits next to him and takes his hand.

"I should've called the cops long ago, Johnny. When you were her age."

"Ma, it's ok."

"No, it's not, Johnny. I can never make it up to you. But you have to understand, I was scared. Things were different back then. The police, your family, your neighbors, they didn't help the same way they do now. But I could have done something. I should have done something."

His resentment flees in the face of her honesty. No, her words do not undo what was done, but all the things she has done come into focus. Putting food on the table, keeping them out of the trailer park, doing her best to keep Carey safe...

He squeezes her hand.

He stays home all weekend, not letting Carey out of sight for too long. He calls Allison, tells her things are under control, but that Carey is still freaked out, clingy and crying. He does his best to reassure Carey. He never did big brother things before, but here he is... Somehow, his presence makes her feel safe.

On Monday morning he returns to work. Joe doesn't ask anything, but he does comment "Your Aunt Virginia sure is a sweet lady. Is she from down south?"

He wonders what exactly Psycho had said to prompt that reaction. He smiles inside.

When he gets home he calls Allison.

"Listen, I need to stay home with Carey right now. I can't visit for a while."

"Can I come see you?" she asks hesitantly.

He thinks this over. He hates people knowing where he lives. He's worked very hard to prevent anyone from knowing anything at all about any aspect of his personal life. He thinks. How does he feel now? How does he feel about Psycho?

"That's ok," she says, sounding embarrassed. "I'm sorry I asked, of course you don't-"

"Sure, come on over. I promised you a tour of Sunset Court a long time ago. Don't forget your switchblade, you might need it," he says, his old sarcasm bouncing back.

* * *

Ma works herself into a fit the next day, cleaning while he's at work. When he comes home, he's impressed. Everything is still shabby and old, but neat and clean. Very clean.

When he opens the door to Allison's tentative knock, he sees she's undergone major renovation too. She's wearing the bow Claire had given her, and found something to wear that's not black or gray. The purple dress is very dark, but he thinks it's feminine enough to please Ma. None of that black shit around her eyes, either.

Ma now shows that she can cook just as well as Aunt Virginia. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole.

"So you know Johnny from school?" Ma wants to know.

"Yes, we were in..." He gives her a look. Don't say detention, he thinks at her. "... shop class together." Is this any better?

"A girl in shop, isn't that interesting how times change. Don't they have home economics any more?"

"No ma'am. But they do have cooking classes. Johnny," she gives him a mischievous look, "says he wanted to take that instead but the class was filled."

He gives her a look and shakes his head imperceptibly.

"Yes!" Allison continues, "He's told me all about Aunt Virginia. My Aunt Magnolia..."

He kicks her gently under the table. She looks disappointed, but changes direction.

"I mean, John understands the marbling of steaks very well."

So she was listening to his lecture.

"Johnny was always good at helping with Carey."

"Really?" Allison looks curious. Oh great.

He sighs inwardly. "More green beans?" he offers Allison. The distraction fails.

"That's right," Ma continues. "He helped with bottles and diapers and the colic. He would sing her to sleep."

His face feels hot and he shifts about.

"Johnny can sing?" Jeez, she's egging Ma on!

"Johnny had a very sweet voice before his voice changed. I haven't heard him sing since. Johnny, do you still sing to Carey?"

"There isn't much to sing about here," he growls. He's getting annoyed.

Ma overlooks this. "I'll get dessert... apple crumb, Johnny's favorite."

He can't take it any more. "Ma, do you have to keep calling me Johnny?"

"I'll help, Mrs. Bender," Allison picks up Bender's and Carey's plates and follows Ma into the kitchen.

He and Allison sit stiffly in the living room with Ma after dinner. Allison is starting to look restless. Ma's been giving her the third degree since they sat down for dinner. He's getting worried. He knows what Psycho is capable of. He dreads more about Aunt Magnolia. Or the FBI witness protection program. Or her childhood in Mongolia. Who knows what she might come out with.

Carey scoots over on the floor so she can touch the velvet at the hem of Allison's dress. Allison absently strokes Carey's hair while they talk. He observes this makes Ma happy. Oh lord, is she going to start demanding grandchildren now? She finally leaves to clear up in the kitchen, then puts Carey to bed.

"Well," he says, slapping his leg jauntily, "Mr. Reynolds will be wanting Allison home soon. I'll walk her home." He has a fleeting memory of his enactment of Brian's home life. This whole night has been much, much worse.

Ma beams. Of course he will, it's almost 9, on a school night. Allison practically curtsies as she thanks Ma for dinner. He feels another excursion into the fanciful impending and speeds things along.

Out on the street, he apologizes.

"I had no idea Ma was going to get all respectable like that. I was just hoping there would be enoughTV dinnersto go around and that she'd empty the ashtrays."

He puts his arm around Allison and leans close. "Thank you for cutting the story about Aunt Magnolia. "

She gives him a mischievous smile.

"You know, you're cute when you do that."

* * *

He walks her all the way up to her door.

"Since we're being traditional tonight…" he takes her hand and kisses it. He means to joke about it, but once her hand is in his, he doesn't want to let go. Once their eyes meet, he doesn't want to look away. He bends to kiss her. She presses herself against him, wraps her arms around him so tightly it takes his breath away and avidly returns his kiss. They come to a pause and he says "Psycho, I never knew you felt that way." She gives him her devilish smile. He matches her grin with one of his own.

"I didn't think you'd give me the tongue." She stops his cocky smile with another kiss.

Eventually he pulls away and asks "Can I come see you tomorrow, after Carey goes to bed?"

Allison bounces a little and meeps.

"I'll take that as a yes."


	12. The Winning Hand

He's there at 9 on the dot. She answers the door with a glowing smile and pulls him inside for an enthusiastic kiss.

"Hey, you going to jump my bones?" he leers after giving her a thorough response.

Her smile dims a watt or two as she becomes serious.

"I want to show you something."

She takes him by the hand to lead him to her bed room, where she pulls out a large sketchbook. She flips back and opens it to a picture of Bender himself. She explains she did an individual portrait of each of the breakfast club members last spring. His portrait is done in hard strokes of charcoal. His gloved fists are screwed up one atop the other, his chin resting on them. His expression is brooding, almost in pain. It is a strange experience to see her private vision of himself. Then she pages forward to a new sketch. This one makes him think of the sketch of his switchblade, very smooth but distinct. His mouth is curved in a smile he has never seen on his face, quite unlike the scowl he looks at every morning. He thinks he must look like that when she is so very much herself he can't help but smile.

"How about you? Do you have a picture of yourself?" She shows him her breakfast club self-portrait. This also is done in charcoal. Her face is framed by her parka hood. She looks withdrawn, dreamy, detached. He remembers that look. It's been a long time since he has seen it.

"And now? Do you have a new one?" he asks.

"No."

"You should do one. You look different now. Do you feel different?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"You have no idea." He looks at his hands. "That black eye? I got it climbing the fence to the Metra tracks. I was blind drunk. I got this crazy idea. I felt like my whole life was black, was nothing but shit. Well, this is ridiculous, melodramatic…" He looks at her, sees encouragement.

"I wanted to throw myself under the train. It's embarrassing, I only thought of that because I was drunk. That's how I ended up back seeing Dr. Panz... the cops found me out cold and they didn't know what to do with me. But I really did feel like my whole life was black. It's like, as far back as I can remember, my old man has been stepping on everything I do. Anything good I'd ever do, he'd crush. I gave up trying because it all turned to shit anyway. So it seemed like his words had come true, that I was no damn good. I had gotten my GED and gotten this job with Midas, but to Cherry, it would never have been good enough. To people like her, I'd always be nothing."

"Not to me," she says

"You made me see that."

He kisses her.

She is soft under his hands. Only the language of the body matters now. He wants to know every part of her, the way he knows the sound of her voice, the way she moves, her smell, every expression he's seen on her face. He has experience from his wallet full of photos, but none of that applies now. This is pure exploration, no motive but the moment, no goal but discovering more of her Allison-ness through taste, touch, smell. And she yields, joins with him in mutual sensing and inquiry and she opens herself to him.

* * *

"You _did_ want to jump me!" A lightness is flowing through him. "You lured me here, softened me up, sweet talked me into your bed!"

Her smile is mischievous. "I did."

"You crazy Psycho!" He pulls her closer into his arms and wants to keep her there forever.

They are sleepily nestled together when they hear the front door open. Allison bolts up from the bed, meeps, then dances from foot to foot. She looks wildly around to him. She seems to realize she has nothing on, grabs the sheet. He is already pulling on his pants, fastening his belt. The door is opening.

"Allison Reynolds, I will not have this man in my house!" Her father is brandishing Bender's boots. Mr. Reynolds stops, speechless, taking in the scene. Bender's head emerges from his thermal shirt.

"It's nice to see you after so _**long**_ an absence, sir." He emphasizes the word 'long.' He puts as much insolence and confidence into his tone as he can. Allison, in her sheet, looks horrified. He snags his boots from the frozen Mr. Reynolds' hands as if the man were his valet.

"I think we had better let the lady dress," and motions him to the door with an out stretched arm.

Mr. Reynolds sputters "Look here... You can't... I demand..."

"C'mon, Mr. Reynolds, be a gentleman, allow her some privacy."

He remains with his arm extended until Mr. Reynolds stamps out. He puts on his boots in the hallway as Allison frantically dresses.

Once in the living room, they face Mr. Reynolds and his wrath.

"This is unacceptable, young lady. Engaging in... carousing with... being with this delinquent," he stutters with anger, "is absolutely forbidden. I will not stand for this under my own roof. You will stop seeing this man or the police-"

Bender interrupts him. "Sir, do you play poker?"

Mr. Reynolds' expression of indignation and rage slips for a moment into confusion.

"No, I do not."

"Well, let me tell you something about poker... when you call a bluff, it's because you think you've got a better hand. Sir, you don't have shit for cards, and I am not bluffing. We've got the winning hand and you know it."

"You can't stop us, father." Allison shrugs into her coat and follows Bender out into the night.

_**Author's Note: Allison and Bender are responsible adults and they practice safe sex, even if Bender has never heard it called that. One of Allison's lesbian book store condoms is used. Only she knows why it was out of her purse and lying there on the bedside table.**_


End file.
